That all being said, why is my broker raping me? I mean monetarily, of course.
Back-up to Friday afternoon when I ran like a bat out of hell (that expression sucks, by the way, bats don't run, and why would they be running out of hell? It seems to me like bats and hell go together quite well, actually. Ah, the expression is definitely "flew like a bat out of hell", isn't it? Still don't like it) out of this office to get the car from the parking garage, only to find that when I flung **my duffel bag over my shoulder I knocked the coupon for the garage, AND the slip that allows you to retrieve your car out of my back pocket and on to Water Street. So I ran back three blocks, found the papers still on the sidewalk, exhaled a loooong "Jeeeeesusss Christ!" (which is my favorite expression of late, even with the irony of my religious background-as I mentioned sometime on Saturday, I believe in Jesus. He was a good dude, then he died. The end.), and received sympathy from a passerby (he said, "I know how that feels!"). Thanks dude, that actually did make me feel better. Fo' sho. Boom, I hustle uptown only to be involved in a hit-and-run (full disclosure is never going to happen here or anywhere else, let's just say its NYC and I'm a terrible, terrible human being. Who is also super broke. And going to hell. To run with the bats. And wonder WWJD? Would he run with the bats? Did you forget what we were talking about already? Goooooood.) So after that thing happened that we never want to talk about again, I sprinted up the stairs to look at what was probably already my new apartment whether I wanted it or not. Me Likey. Approved. I run downstairs and proceed to exit Manhattan. This takes effing forever. The road trip occurs, we make the ears bleed of the only male passenger by actually listening and singing along to the debut albums of both Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. Blah, blah, fast-forward through the weekend o' fun (for the time being) to the part where Lazy Eyes messes up and doesn't get us the deal we want and then redeems himself by forfeiting his fee from the landlord to get us the apartment (yay, thanks Lazy Eyes, you did your job, danke). So we have the apartment. And now (like he literally just called me) he expects me to have a certified check for the first month's rent and the security deposit to drop off today. HA! Sir, are you aware that I was basking the the miserable glory that is cheap beer and alumni (read: out of shape male friends) rugby? When would I have had time to get you an effing certified check on Sunday? And why exactly is the application fee still costing me money? I paid yo' ass already, I thought. Anyway, this just caused another mini-freak out, which was awesome because this time I was sitting at the front desk on the phone with my mom almost crying. Luckily, I had the deep, yogic breathing skills to stop that before it happened and I got the crybaby of the year award.
Moral of that story=moving sucks and brokers are figurative rapists.
**It's not mine. I don't own practical things like functional luggage. My duffel bag was an Across the Universe prop (yes, seriously) and has 2 broken straps. As previously mentioned, I have the best roommate ever who lets me borrow all of her big girl things, like luggage, work clothes, and raincoats.
Additionally, it is H's birthday today, and I love her.
Also, college kind of sucks when you're old and tired. I know this is probably not what you want to be thinking about right now, but "my system" really didn't handle the whole let's-have-a-fajita [fah-JIIII-tuh]-for-breakfast-with-spinach-dip-as-an-appetizer-and-then-drink-10-beers-and-stay-up-all-night-and-eat-pizza/Snickers-ice-cream-bars-at-4-am thing well. Although, I did just start to crave Spinach dip again. Damn.
La la la la la Monday...I'm going to rip my eyes out.
A
PS: I'm going to whore myself out to the first person who will run my lines for this play with me. You know, since it's in like 10 days.
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